Under The Influence
by EmmP19
Summary: She knew she never should have had that last drink... HGDM


"Well, well, well. What do we have here?"

She jerks up from her position leaning heavily against the wall, pulling the bottle away from her lips as she glares at the intruder who dares to interrupt her solitude. Malfoy's mouth slants up into his trademark smirk, his eyes like steel mocking her with their usual icy contempt which he reserves solely for her. She sneers at him in reply, just sober enough to salvage a little self-dignity and bare her upper lip at him in an expression of sheer contempt.

She realises, of course, that she is hardly looking her most dignified at the moment. The tousled hair and heavily lidded eyes, red-tinted by the booze, the disarrayed red-and-gold striped tie flipped over her shoulder and the rumpled shirt - all these can barely be said to make her appear collected and together, can they? Not to mention the half-empty bottle of vodka she grasps in her hand. She can't even remember how she got it. Hardly befitting of a Head Girl, really.

As his cold eyes sweep over her bedraggled appearance, a derisive sneer materialising over his aristocratic features, she wonders idly why he is still awake at this ungodly hour of three o'clock in the morning. And, moreover, why he has ventured out here into the common room they share as Head Boy and Girl upon her return? Then again, she had hardly been quiet in coming back from Ron's eighteenth birthday party in Gryffindor common room. She wonders exactly how loud she had been. She remembers crashing quite painfully into his broomstick.

There had been cursing. She thinks.

"To think Head Girl would act in such a manner," he drawls, obviously revelling in finding her in such a state of intoxication, spiteful glee gleaming in his eyes. "Disgraceful, really."

Well, she thinks maliciously, pumped up with alcohol-fuelled self-righteousness, what business is it of his what she does? He truly is the bane of her very existence, this year more than ever because of the simple fact that they are required to share living quarters. And he doesn't exactly make it easier. She has the irrepressible urge to ask him why he's always such an asshole. Why he continues to pester her even now they have to share a common room. Why, of all the Muggleborn students in Hogwarts, and she certainly isn't the only one, is it she whose life he seeks to turn into a living hell?

But all she manages to mumble in the direction of the detested Slytherin is a largely incoherent, "Fuck off."

Hermione will never ask Malfoy any of those things, because that would mean letting him know that he gets to her, and that the taunts and poisonous barbs he spits from his tongue like venom at her has an effect on her. Which they don't. Honestly. She stopped caring what comes from his nasty little mouth a long time ago, but that doesn't mean she doesn't get angry. That doesn't mean that she just takes whatever comment he throws at her. Because for every venomous insult he gives her, she throws one back, more cutting and harmful than the last. Not that anything she says seems to affect him. Ever. Apathetic bastard.

But even if she won't admit it, even to herself, Derek Malfoy can stir up a rage in her like no other, and that hasn't changed.

There are too many reason's why she's gone a little wild these days, and living in close quarters with her enemy is only one of them. Why can't they reach some kind of temporary truce while they live together, just to be civil, not to be constantly at each other's throats? True, she doesn't like the idea than he would, should she ask him. But god, it would make things a damn bit easier.

But no. Relations between them are as hostile as they've ever been, for the most part. She tried at first to take the higher moral ground and just ignore him wherever she could, but he made it impossible. Most of the time, they're literally at each other's throats.

But… then there are time when she senses that something has changed. That something's going on but she simply can't put her finger on it. Sometimes, during those rare instances when she and Malfoy are in the same room and not fighting, she will look up from her book, or her homework, or whatever it is she's doing, and he'll be sending these odd little looks her way. They are frighteningly intense, dangerous looks, as though he's peering right into her, laying her bare. But these unreadable looks last only a mere fraction of a second, for as soon as she looks across and he realises she's caught him looking, his eyes will become cold and hard once more, as though an impenetrable wall of ice has sprung up over them, and he sneers at her in disgust. The result: she's left there staring like an idiot, wondering if she just imagined the whole thing. But she knows she hasn't.

She hates it. She hates it because she doesn't understand it.

"I said, fuck off, Malfoy," she snarls now, because she realises that he hasn't moved from his position in the doorway to his bedroom.

Malfoy simply leans casually against the doorway, arms folded over his chest. His apparent nonchalance, his amusement at her drunkenness, only serves to infuriate her more.

"Always the first sign, you know. Drinking on your own," he drawls mockingly, nodding towards her bottle. The sneer has been replaced with a smirk, as though Misty is a rather amusing pet.

The bottle in her hand is cold against her skin. With a start, Hermione realises that, suddenly, Malfoy is no longer in the doorway, but is standing right beside her with his head tilted towards her, appraising her with a critical eye. How did that happen? She didn't see him move. She inhales slowly, shakily, trying to focus, and takes an unsteady step away. She doesn't like how close he is. She can feel his warm breath on her frigid skin, and it makes her uneasy. Why is he standing so close? Is she swaying, or is that the room spinning? Her befuddled mind, usually so sharp, is blurred by the alcohol. She can't think straight.

He appears not to have noticed her unease. He shakes his head condescendingly. "Better be careful, Granger, or people might think you have a problem."

The boy is trying to be witty. God help us all, she thinks.

"Get away from me, Malfoy," she growls, "before I puke all over your shoes."

The threat isn't entirely an empty one.

Malfoy's eyebrows shoot up almost comically. His immediate reaction is entertaining to watch, actually. He freezes, his muscles tensed like he was about to leap away from her but caught himself just in time. As if he can't decide whether or not she's being serious. Jumping back would shatter his oh-so-precious apathetic façade, after all. But then, being thrown up on is obviously not a thought he relishes.

Hermione leans back against the wall, ignoring Malfoy now, and puts her head in her hands, groaning as the nausea passes. So maybe she'd had a wee bit too much to drink. Who would have thought it, huh? Her, Hermione Granger. Drunk as a sailor. Well, things have changed a little since she was fourteen.

Not that she's that much of a party animal now, she thinks grimly as her stomach threatens to introduce its contents to the lovely, plush, Head-Person carpet she's standing on. She still gets drunk just by sniffing a bit of firewhiskey. And she really doesn't like feeling like shit, anymore than Malfoy likes her barging in at three in the morning, cursing and crashing around the room and waking him up. So that means no one's happy. This has been a very bad idea.

She feels his hand come up and take away the bottle of vodka from her fingers, and keeps her head in her hands. She doesn't want to see him sneering at her again with that holier-than-thou expression of his which he reserves solely for 'lesser beings' such as her.

Especially her.

Besides, her hands are cold and her face is on fire.

He's too close again. His heated breath is fanning her skin, and it sends unwanted shivers down her spine. He's way, way too close. She can feel his eyes burning into her, and she doesn't need to look up to know that he's giving her another one of those looks again. She's drunk too much. She needs to get away from here. Away from him.

God, what she wouldn't give to just go back in time and instead have crept quietly into her room without making a peep. But no, she's on the wrong side of drunk and had made enough noise to wake up half the student body of Hogwarts. Now she feels sober and wasted at the same time. The mixed messages and panic alarms her body is sending her is making her want to throw up. She feels certain it's all his fault. It always is.

He's always been her worst enemy. He still is, most of the time. But sometimes… sometimes he looks at her as though he's… something else. Something nothing to do with feuds and fighting and rivalry and schoolyard grudges, but something else entirely.

Why is she even thinking about this?

"So, I'm a weak, snooty, arrogant, disgusting, Death Eating asshole, am I?" his voice reaches her. He's mocking her again. His hand had reached out to hold her upright at some point, more automatically than anything else, she's sure, and the pressure with which his hand grips her shoulder is unbearably tight. "Just like my son of a bitch father."

Oh. She remembers what she'd been yelling earlier now, when she'd crashed into that damn broomstick of his.

"Now listen, you filthy Mudblood, you wake me up like that again in the middle of the night, and they'll be hell to pay, you hear?" His voice is hard again now, cruel and malicious and cold.

She'd forgotten until then how much she hates him. Her hands come down from her face and clench into fists at her sides. She has to fight to keep control. Being intoxicated doesn't help. She wants to teach him a thing or two about using that disgusting word around her.

"I'll do whatever the hell I want. You're nothing but a pathetic, weak little boy. You have no power - not over me, not over anyone," she spits at him, snarling. Even in this state, she knows him better than he thinks. She knows that to get to Malfoy, you must attack his pride, his ego, his own sense of power.

And it works. Malfoy tenses in anger, then takes an intimidating step nearer to her. She has a feeling that struck a chord with him there. It gives her a small flash of triumph, though she can't help but feel her anxiety ride a notch at Malfoy's furious expression. But she won't take back the words, her pride won't allow her to. Besides, every word was true, and it was about time someone told him.

"What is wrong with you, Granger?" he grits out after a few seconds. "I could destroy you, you know that?"

Hermione scoffs and raises her gaze from where's she's been staring at the wall opposite. She doesn't back down when his anger-filled eyes pierce hers, even though it's uncomfortable to look at him so directly in such close proximity. "Want to know what's wrong with me, Malfoy? Want to know what's my problem? Well, I'll tell you. You. You're my problem. You and the way you've been acting recently. And I'm not talking about the odd 'Mudblood' taunt, or your snide little remarks at me or Jack or Brad. You are seriously freaking me out, Malfoy."

Malfoy blinks. Then he pulls his head away like she spat in his face.

Her stomach jumps into her throat as she waits for his reaction, for his words, for the brunt of his scorn. When it doesn't come, anger replaces the anxiety. "Should I be more explicit?"

He turns on her sharply, eyes hard. "That was explicit enough." Oh, he's angry. Very angry. Two spots of colour high on his cheekbones. Grey eyes glittering. The man of ice has been cracked. "How exactly have I freaked you out, Granger?"

He knows. She can read it in the way his jaw is clenched, the way his eyes flash defensively.

"You know exactly what I'm talking about," she accuses. Her fingertips wander over the wall she leans on, tracing patterns onto the paint. "Why do you act like you hate me so much, Malfoy?"

The apathetic expression he so flawlessly maintains finally cracks, and confusion peeps through, in the form of his narrowed eyes. "Why do I…?"

That's it, Hermione, she thinks. Keep him off guard. Keep him confused, because you're in dangerous territory.

She goes for broke. "Do you know that since the start of this year, whenever I look at you, you're staring at me?"

Malfoy's mouth falls open. It should be funny to see the usually unflappable, cool Draco Malfoy shocked, but her stomach sinks into her feet and her mouth tastes like sawdust.

Hermione's insides ache. She wants nothing more than to run to her room and hide. The door is only a few feet away. But no, she has to continue this.

"Did you know that you looked at me like that only this morning over the tables at breakfast?"

"What are you talking about?" Malfoy snaps, and angrily turns away from her. The pink spots of colour are raised even more vividly on his pale cheeks, burning her with a hollow victory. He's still for a moment, and then jolts into motion as if touched with a cattle prod. He wrenches the lid off the half-empty bottle of vodka he has taken from her, and takes a large mouthful.

Hermione doesn't let his actions distract her. "Did you know that you stared at me for twenty solid minutes the other day at lunch? Huh? I mean, what the hell is going on, Malfoy? We've been at each other's throats for six years, what's with all this?"

Malfoy wraps his fingers more tightly around the neck of the vodka bottle. Takes a mouthful. "You're drunk, Granger. You're talking bullshit," he says sourly. He isn't looking at her, which means he's hiding something. And she isn't done yet.

Hermione's tongue darts out, licks her lower lip. She tastes alcohol.

"Did you know that Pansy Parkinson cornered me in the Potions dungeons this afternoon and threatened me? Warned me to stay away from you?"

Malfoy's head jerks up at that, disbelief and anger written across his face. "Did she now?"

Hermione feels the emotions he's so clearly displaying. "She did. And do you know what I told her? 'No, don't be stupid, Parkinson. Malfoy hates me and I hate him'."

Her words, a repeat of the earlier conversation, taste vile on her tongue as she speaks them.

"And?"

"And she looked angry and confused, and thought I was lying."

Malfoy stares at her, his expression unreadable. He passes the bottle from one hand to another. "I don't know what you think you know, Granger, but"

"Just shut up!" she explodes, finally losing her temper. "I don't want to hear it! I just want it to stop!"

"You don't even know what you're talking about," he replies coldly, still staring at her.

"Tell me you hate me," she says. "That's how it is, how it's always been. I hate you and you hate me. The only reason we tolerate each other's company is because we're forced to live together." Hermione knows she's rambling. She can't stop. "I don't want to know what's making you look at me like that because then I'd know about it and then I won't be able to stop thinking about it. Understand?"

Understand. How can he understand? Even she doesn't know what she's saying. Her mouth has begun to feel numb, like cotton wool, and she forces the words out with difficulty. She's suddenly sure she won't remember this in the morning. It's immature of her to be thankful for that, but she is.

"You're drunk," he says again, angrily this time. "You're not making any sense and not just because you're slurring. And Granger, you're really starting to piss me off. Much more than usual. Hell, you're intolerable when you're sober. You're even worse when you're drunk."

Hermione stares at the floor for a moment, contemplating what to say next with the strange kind of surreal lucidity her brain has when she's drunk, and then faces him again. "Parkinson reckons you've got the hots for me, and it's making the poor girl sick to death," she ridicules, her voice mocking. As though it's some amusing, dirty secret. "You better set the record straight, Malfoy, because I don't think any of us could stomach that."

Malfoy eyes her, his gaze hard and full of harshness. She knows her words have got to him, she can tell by the way he looks ready to hit her. The reaction is satisfying and painful all at once. Like poking at a bruise. Now she's said what she needed to say. Her stomach threatens once more to reintroduce her to her a dinner with a violent spasm, and she knows she has to get out of there. Hermione slowly pulls herself upright off the wall. She turns, and Malfoy's hand wraps harshly around her upper arm, helping her to keep her balance as she walks towards her room. Strangely, she doesn't shrug him off.

He may be the enemy, she reminds herself wearily, but he's just Malfoy, after all.

He doesn't remove his hand from her arm. It isn't holding her up anymore, but it does make her feel dizzy. She can feel his attention razor-sharp on her. His fingers make small indents in her flesh and she knows he's restraining himself from hurting her, even now as he tries to help her.

The situation makes her want to scream in confusion and frustration. She could cry, but she doesn't. She'd never been the type to cry and neither him nor vodka will make her start now.

Still…

"Why do you try to make my life hell?" Hermione asks plaintively, looking at his face beneath the dim candlelight. His mouth is set in a straight line. His hands come up to grip her shoulders. His touch feels so good and yet so wrong. She can't push him away. Malfoy stares into her eyes like he's trying to force his thoughts into her head, and then kisses her hard on the lips. It isn't deep, but it isn't chaste. It leaves her lips burning as he pulls away.

"You won't remember this in the morning," he mutters, voice void of emotion. "But that's why. There's always been something about you, Granger. I don't know why, but you intrigue me." He says it so quietly. "I want you, Granger. And I hate you for making me feel this way."

She stops him from speaking anymore by jerking out of his grasp. She wants nothing more than to strangle him. Nothing is the same. It should be same, damn it! He shouldn't throw looks her way that say he wouldn't mind putting his tongue into her mouth or her body in his bed. Not when they're supposed to be enemies.

"Don't say that," Hermione warns in a low voice. She crosses her arms over her chest. "It's wrong. You're a bastard, Malfoy, and I hate you."

Sucking in a breath, he widens his stance like he's preparing himself for a showdown. "Liar," he accuses, so utterly confident.

In that moment, staring into those terrifyingly intense silver eyes, she wants nothing more than to give in. But no, she thinks bitterly, she isn't allowed.

No rule says she isn't, Hermione admits to herself, uneasy to even consider the very thought of being with Malfoy. But there are unwritten rules she can't break.

For Gryffindor, her house. For Harry and Ron. And more importantly, at least to her, for her pride. And she and Harry are best friends. Damn it, that _means_ something. If he'd just stop looking at her like she's a cornered prey and he's the hungry predator, maybe he'd understand that.

"I'm not lying," she snaps back. "I hate you."

Malfoy lets out a half-chuckle as he exhales. "Maybe you do. But that doesn't mean you don't want me. You won't even remember this."

"I'll remember."

"Good."

He falls silent. A cold winter gust of wind sweeps over her from the open window. She looks up at him and is horrified to feel her heart throb with something indefinable when she sees the look of unabashed lust in his eyes as they sweep her from head to foot. She hasn't realised until now how badly she'd aching. It catches her off guard as she looks too closely at his face, so the feeling is a surprise. A terrible one. Malfoy gets that expression again, as if he's a starving man, and she's a piece of steak.

"I'm taking you back to your room," he tells her firmly. She doesn't argue. Something rings inside her; she feels like her stomach's trying to jump out of her mouth. Her hands throb. She hadn't known that they could.

"I'll probably ask you in," Hermione responds in a dead statement, shocked at how calmly she's accepting this.

Malfoy's eyes grow distant, looking at some unknown point over her shoulder. "I'd probably come in anyway." A smirk curves his mouth.

"I'll probably come on to you," Hermione says absently, as if it isn't the big deal that it really is. She stares at her shoes but doesn't really see them.

"Not if I did first," Malfoy replies. He takes her hand in his, matching their fingertips together as if he's done it a million times before. Then his fingers slip through hers and his strong grip abruptly pulls her closer to his body. She shuts her eyes when he rests his forehead against hers. It's such an intimate gesture. So tender, and from the heart. Such an odd gesture from someone like him. It says things he shouldn't be saying.

"Tomorrow," she swallows, "I'll hate myself for this."

"And I'll remember what an aggressive drunk you are," he chuckles, his lips very close to her own. His warm breath washes over her lips, leaving behind a slight tremble in her throat.

"I'm not an aggressive drunk."

"Of course not," he answers with a touch of the old sarcasm, and his nose bumps into hers.

"And you're not going to come into my room."

He heaves a breath. Regret. "No."

"That's good," Hermione nods, adopting a note of finality. "Because I shouldn't let you."

"I truly am more of an idiot than even Wilson," Malfoy sighs, almost absently.

This statement has an immediate effect on Hermione. The mention of her friend's name brings her crashing back down to earth, and his words surprise her, though she doesn't know why. She pulls back and opens her eyes. Meeting his, she feels drunk, and she has a feeling that this time it has nothing to do with the alcohol. "Why?" She doesn't want to know the answer, but her mouth is moving before she can stop it.

"Because you're one of my worst enemies, Granger." Malfoy's voice is tense. He narrows his eyes. "You're everything I've been brought up to hate and revile. But it doesn't make me stop wanting you."

She knows she'd right to be afraid. "Don't."

"I _want_ you, Granger," he repeats, with emphasis.

Hermione freezes. She's staring at this boy... man... whatever... that she should feel nothing but disgust and hatred for. Feeling something that shocks her to her bones.

She stares at the hand he has outstretched to her, as he strands in the threshold to her room. An invitation. An offer. A mistake? She let's her mind wander. She stares at him, stricken and amazed and torn.

She wonders…

After all, in barely more than ten minutes, he has flipped her life here at Redwood one-eighty. He has destroyed everything she thought she knew about herself, about him, about everything, and has presented her with some new, bizarre reality where everything is different. He even has her questioning herself and everything she thought she knew.

She just wonders.


End file.
